


Silver is the New Gold

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: Even someone as fabulous as Dorian has to come to terms with the changes time brings. And when your hair has been your crowning glory all your life– what do you do when time begins to make its presence felt?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Silver is the New Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges. A story to mark Dorian's birthday on 28 July.

  
  


Frowning, Dorian peered into the bathroom mirror. 

_What’s that?_

Without taking his eyes off the image in the glass, he reached out and fumbled for a light switch. A crisp ‘click’, and cold hard light flooded across the mirror. Dorian leaned in and stared harder.

“Oh, my god!” he breathed. “It’s a _grey hair!_ ”

Would anyone else notice it? Had anyone else already noticed it? Stricken, Dorian teased through his hair to isolate the single strand of silver among the gold. What should he do? Should he pull it out? Carefully, he coiled the grey hair around his finger, and tugged sharply. 

_My first grey hair. I’m starting to go grey. And I’m only forty-three._ He sighed. Clicking off the light, he left the bathroom, humming an ironic little rhyme softly to himself: _Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me; I’ve got my first grey hair, and I’m forty-three._

  
  


Searching for grey hair became part of Dorian’s everyday routine. His hair remained gloriously, youthfully blond, but once in a while, a single stray silver hair would intrude – and would be plucked out immediately. 

But by the time Dorian was forty-seven, the grey hairs were appearing more frequently. And in larger numbers. Twos and threes at first, then small clusters began to form. 

When pulling out the offending grey hairs was no longer a practical solution, Dorian had his hairdresser deal with them. Discreetly, of course. Luckily, Dorian’s hairdresser was a colour-matching wizard, and nobody would have guessed that that gorgeous shade of blond was anything other than completely natural.

  
  


Shortly before his fifty-first birthday, Dorian returned home after a month-long sojourn in Argentinian Patagonia, where he’d stayed on an isolated estancia owned by an old friend. He’d enjoyed the peace and relaxation that came with living in such an isolated location, and he hadn’t regretted for a moment doing without the regular attentions his masseur, his manicurist, and his hairdresser. 

Until he got home. 

He clicked on the bathroom light and peered into the mirror – and was shocked to see a distinct edging of grey at the temples.

_Dear lord! That won’t do! That won’t do at all!_

Dorian went directly to the telephone and made an appointment with his hairdresser for the following day.

  
  


By the age of fifty-four, Dorian was having his hairdresser call at the Castle once a fortnight. He had one of the guest bathrooms fitted out as a private hairdressing salon, and it was there that Monsieur Etienne undertook his secret alchemy, turning His Lordship’s hair from silver to gold.

Bonham, whose own hair was now more iron-grey than sandy-brown, and Jones, whose locks were fading into a salt-and-pepper blend, took turns to pick up Monsieur Etienne from his salon in the town and drive him to the Castle. They never discussed this aspect of their duties with anyone else.

  
  


Dorian’s arrangement with Monsieur Etienne suited him very well, but shortly after his sixtieth birthday he received the news he’d dreaded hearing but had known must come one day. 

“I regret very much, my lord,” said Monsieur Etienne, as he put away his scissors and combs, “that my next visit will be my last. I am retiring.”

“But, Monsieur! This is terrible news! What am I to do?” 

“I am sure you will find someone else to look after your hair, my lord. If it’s of any consolation, I’ve enjoyed our association very much.” The hairdresser zipped up his smart leather bag. “I regret this severance more than I can express, but I’ve reached the age at which I long for a life of leisure. I’m going back to live in France, and I look forward to playing with my grandchildren.”

Standing at an upstairs window, Dorian watched the hairdresser climbing into the waiting car and being driven away by Jones. 

“Anythin’ you need me to do, m’lord?” Bonham stood in the doorway, his eyes full of sympathy and concern. 

“Terrible news, Bonham! Monsieur Etienne is retiring. What am I to do?”

“Well, m’lord, I could ‘ave a couple o’ the boys look into options for you. Alternatives, like. ‘Airdressers you could try out – see if they, er, style yer hair the way y’like it.”

_Colour my hair the way I like it._ The unspoken word hovered in the air.

Dorian nodded curtly. “Yes. Good idea. Get onto it, Bonham.” 

_Dear Bonham. I can rely on him to be discreet._

  
  


After Monsieur Etienne’s final visit, Bonham presented Dorian with a short list of hairdressers recommended by the younger and more stylish members of the Eroica gang. Almost at random, Dorian chose one, and sent Bonham off to phone on his behalf. 

Ten minutes later, Bonham reappeared. “Er— Sorry, m’lord, but Valenti – that’s the ‘airdresser – ‘e says ‘e won’t come to the Castle. Says ‘e can only work in ‘is own surrounds, like.”

Dorian’s jaw dropped. “What? He expects me to go and sit in his salon with the hoi poloi?”

“Well, no, m’lord, not exactly. ‘E agreed to close the salon to everyone else but you, m’lord – you’d ‘ave a private sittin’, like. But ‘e was firm about it; ‘e won’t work anywhere but ‘is own salon.”

Dorian sighed. “All right. I’ll humour him this time. You can take me into town. If I like what he does, then we’ll come to an arrangement. If I don’t – then we’ll try someone else the next time.”

  
  


The sign at the front said, ‘Valenti. Styling Consultant. Master Colourist. Exceptional Hairdressing Services.’

A receptionist ushered Dorian into the salon. The décor was not what he’d expected in a hairdressing establishment on a little-visited side-street in a provincial town. A hard-edged interpretation of high art deco in shades of dove-grey and silver, the place looked more like an expensive cocktail bar than a hairdressing salon. A _very_ expensive cocktail bar, with taps and sinks.

At the far corner of the room, a grey velvet curtain slid aside, and Valenti himself appeared in the archway, posed for effect. And what an effect it was! Tall, thin, dark of eye and hollow of cheekbone, the hairdresser might have been sculpted as part of the interior design. The severe perfection of Valenti’s face was nothing short of stunning. 

As someone who had perfected the art of the impressive entrance himself, Dorian recognised a kindred spirit.

Valenti sat his new client in a leather chair facing one of the wall mirrors. Dorian met the hairdresser’s gaze in the glass, posing a little himself, tilting his head at an angle that emphasised the elegant planes of his face. The salon lighting, subtle but clear, glinted amongst Dorian’s blond curls.

“What would your lordship have in mind?” Valenti gathered Dorian’s abundant hair in his hands and wove his fingers into the glossy mass. 

“Something simple. A trim. And there are just a few traces of early grey – a subtle colour to blend them in, perhaps?”

Valenti’s hands stilled. He held Dorian’s gaze in the mirror. 

“No.”

“No?” Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise.

“No.” Valenti shook his head firmly. “The style you wear is, shall we say, baroque – individualistic – but you carry it well. So yes, a trim. Your lordship’s hair is in excellent condition – a little light moisture and gloss will be sufficient. But colour?” He shook his head again. “No, my lord.” 

‘No’ was not a word Dorian was used to hearing. “But— but surely—?”

Valenti removed his hands from his client’s hair. “My lord, it’s time for a change. A handsome man of _mature_ years should embrace the direction time is taking him— not cower away from it. Will you allow me to make a suggestion?”

  
  


Bonham was waiting when Dorian emerged from the hair salon, and when he saw his employer, he could hardly believe his eyes.

“Well, Bonham love— what do you think?” Dorian posed beside the car, waiting for the compliments. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

There was a moment’s silence as Bonham tried to get his mouth to work.

Dorian blinked, watching him expectantly. 

“M’lord— you look amazin’. Bloody amazin’.”

“Why, thank you, Bonham.” Dorian smiled with pure delight. “I’m glad you like it. I would never have thought of taking all the colour out and going platinum-silver— but Valenti suggested I should embrace a new image, and he was right. I look fabulous, don’t you think?” He twirled a lustrous silver-white strand around one finger. 

Bonham stared in admiration. “Y’know, m’lord, you look years younger, if y’don’t mind me sayin’ so— sort of ageless— an’ that colour makes you look like— like an archangel. It’s sensational.”

A note of smugness crept into Dorian’s radiant smile. “Thought you’d like it. Let’s go back to the Castle, and see what the others have to say, shall we? Oh, and Bonham? We’ll be coming to Valenti’s salon every fortnight from now on.”

“Right-o, m’lord.” Bonham climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key.

  
  



End file.
